In Spirit
by Akylae
Summary: House never woke up, but why should a little thing like persistent vegetative state stop him from messing with people. Spoiler for season 4 finale, obviously. AU, obviously. One-shot. Enjoy.


**In Spirit**

There is a well known rumor in the medical world that is never shared with outsiders, a shameful secret kept out of mind of the wider public.

Legend has it that the famed Princeton-Plainsbro is a haunted place, a hospital visited by the ghost of its former physician and frequent patient, the infamous Gregory House. No one knows for sure why the man's spirit wanders its halls to this day, bothering students and staff alike. Some say it's because of a doctor's mistake that ruined his life, others because a friend betrayed him to the authorities. Still others mention his alleged addiction, or the fact that he was a heretic that spent all his days at the place, so his lost soul doesn't know any better than to stick around.

But the darkest possible reason, and one least likely true, is because of a covered-up procedure gone terribly wrong. A procedure done to him against his wish, by none other than his friends and students, in an effort to trade his life for another's. A life endangered through no fault of his own.

In the end the other person died, as if heaven itself chose to punish such a foul betrayal and the people that sought to benefit from it.

The public knows none of this, of course. The official story says Gregory House lapsed into permanent coma from complications to the skull fracture suffered in a vehicle accident. The reason for the complications is mentioned nowhere, unlike the drinking issues that are public knowledge.

But people talk in the tightly knit medical community, and the hushed voices mention scape-goating the victim who can't argue his side.

Med students who fall asleep in the campus library talk of being startled wake by a slam of a stick on desktop. On call surgeons napping in patient rooms between procedures are known to mention an insomniac's uneven pacing going back and forth over and over. A pacing who's source can't be located. Night-shift staff is worried about the owner of sneaker-clad feet vanishing round corners and into elevators. Clinic nurses report candy canes mysteriously vanishing each Christmas. Those in the pediatric ward ask around for anonymous donors that keep leaving balloon animals, red popsicles and computer games. Orderlies in the psych ward never speak of barely audible music coming from the closed piano, but patients sometimes do. Bizarrely, they appear to clam from it. Those leaning toward the occult explain it's because he was also unstable and misunderstood, so there is a positive link between their spirits. Skeptics cite studies on the sedating power of music.

Last but not least is the bouncing, a tireless sound filling the third floor whenever there is a mysterious case somewhere in the building, occasionally concluded by a diagnosis left scribbled on the whiteboard. The janitor and guards never see anyone, and the cameras confirm it.

Of course none of these stories are taken seriously by the people that best knew the man. They repeatedly explain it all away as practical jokes, reminding that the man himself is not even dead, but a patient in persistent vegetative state. Those who believe the conspiracy theory see this as mere deflection done by perpetrators unwilling to face their heinous crime. After all, vegetative state means brain dead, and that' just a step from actually dead. In terms of occult matters, same difference, the spirit has departed the body.

The truth is, he is both. Still alive and taking his insomnia to the extreme of permanent wakefulness, but for all practical purposes completely unaware. No amount of pharmaceuticals nor any kind of surgical intervention made any sort of improvement.

There are, however, few unusual stimulus-response phenomena exhibited, inexplicable without involvement of his character.

Each week day, as noon approaches, the vitals of Gregory house begin a steady climb of tension, culminating with life threatening levels precisely at the end of hospital lunch break, and requiring IV sedatives to treat. After the injection, he can be heard making tiny crying sounds, and often there are tears. The same thing happens without exception each Friday and Wednesday around the start of night shift, unless, suspiciously, Doctor Wilson is present. And while Cuddy's visits are not so punctual, her prolonged absence has the same effect.

Some cling to this as sign of partial awareness until confronted by Doctor Foreman with evidence of irreparable damage to the frontal cortex, and total absence of function in said location. Some, like Doctor Chase do not consider this as relevant, stating that the functional amygdala means existing emotions, and that higher functions present or not, he should not be allowed to suffer.

So with the dean's explicit guidelines, everything possible is done to keep him out of distress, including pain killers for femoral neuropathy and Wilson's regular visits.

The first time Wilson came by, he only did it to put an end to Cuddy's nagging and the disrespectful glances thrown his way by the man's former fellows when they though he wasn't looking. But seeing the lost, thousand-miles stare in Greg's eyes, and hearing haggard, panicked breathing, made Wilson realize just what he had caused, who he had lost. It also made him realize that, perceived expendable even by his sole friend, the older man agreed to relinquish a life made unbearable.

And so Wilson fell apart in the coma ward, apologizing, admitting fondness and regret. The resident nurse, who came to see what the noise was about, swears on her life she saw House smiled through tears ever so lightly when Wilson promised to visit each day.

Wilson keeps visiting to this day, talking of patients lost or saved, sharing latest juicy gossip, commenting new nurses and recent sport events. Under his and the dean's close scrutiny, the nurses know better than to neglect House, or comment when one of his old fellows brings an offering of junk food to be blended and poured down the man's feeding tube. Many a newbie was chastised for killing the TV in the middle of a soap or nature documentary, or forgetting to start the player going softly at night, shuffling trough the enormous musical collection.

Less known is the fact that Wilson is not the only person House reacts to. And while Chase and sometimes Foreman can act as a calming factor in Wilson's occasional absence, or during episodes of breakthrough pain, the ladies of Greg's life get a more flattering response. F-MRI scans indicate a slight excitation in the pleasure center at the sound of Cameron's voice. Cuddy, in their best tradition of lewd-comment exchange, deserves a stand to attention. Needless to say, the resident staff swore an oath of secrecy under threat of losing their jobs and never finding another in their fields. But among themselves they agree that the reason Wilson talks about women so much, is to make the oblivious House stop getting excited about Wilson's latest and most likely permanent better half, Lisa.

But this is not the only secret certain select members of the staff keep. Each year, when a new, ten-dozen strong batch of freshmen arrives, another generation of Housies are covertly bred. In four years and eight rotations, their numbers are culled to three interns with a chance to work a five-year fellowship under the original fellows. The Trinity, as they are known in the medical world, are crown jewels and donation baits of Cuddy's respectable domain. They are the prodigals with all of Greg's expertise among them and none of his lunacy. Or so people think.

For the ghost stories passed mouth to ear down the generations are indeed practical jokes, pulled by Greg's old friends with the dean's explicit blessing and a little help from certain members of support staff. What beter way to keep victims from suspecting foul play than to be the first to suggest it, from someone else.

It's easy actually, to empty the can of candies unseen, instead of the trash, if you're a janitor. It's easy to slip an mp3 player in the ventilation or a piano, and set it to loop some open-ended recording. It's easy to swap tapes and slam nightsticks against side-walls of a freestanding bookshelves before asking the sole shocked reader what's wrong - if you're part of security.

And should one of the hopefuls figure it out, well that's called graduation. Because all standard screening aside, the key factor of a good housie is utter skepticism, to people and to the supernatural. Everything can be explained, usualy by actions of stupid and or malicious humans. From the eureka moment on the lucky bastard is in on the biggest practical joke ever. And a fellowship later, another Housie is released into the world like a rabid monkey, to spread havoc in the health care establishment.

But it isn't easy to become demon spawn. Only the best and brightest earn the privilege of having protocol waived at their unwavering insistence. Chase's diagnostics class with a twist uses real cases to screen those unable to move beyond cramming to offer inspired answers. In clinic duty Brenda removes anyone who can't diagnose under a minute, because those who can't spot flu at a glance have no hope of recognizing bizarre cases in time to save lives. Cameron's ER is a crucible where geeks must learn to make split-second life-or -death decisions and stick to them in spite of her initial skepticism. Foreman's ugly dilemmas zero-in on the toughest, who can live with hard choices and sacrifices by upholding principles over polices.

This process of selection is known only to the dean, the fellows, head nurse and Wilson. And Wilson, who does none of the screening, has the job of making sure the myth goes on. It is because of him that hopefuls are played for fools before being told to appease the ghost of House by small offerings to pediatrics or occasional pilgrimages to the coma ward. It is he also, who runs the betting poll among the staff.

And it is because of their efforts that there is a whole floor of Princeton Plainsboro full of dedicated diagnosticians. There, three tenured physicians and fifteen fellows work on the endless stream of patients that arrive from all across the states and then some. Rich or poor, powerful and powerless, all must come by referral to for a hail-marry diagnosis and hopefully a cure.

Once released into the wild, the Housies, a class of their own, are the most coveted of physicians.

And there is a little known secret among them, never shared with outsiders, a covert bond kept out of mind of the wider public. It is shared in suppressed smug grins whenever failed hopefuls whispers in their presence of the haunting, an inside joke between participants of the ultimate prank.

And there is a softer smile shared among the men and women who knew the real deal, a content acknowledgment of a deeper, more important truth.

That there are and always will be doctors around the country, tapping and clicking and pacing and bouncing long into the restless night, mulling over a riddle in order to save lives. Doctors pulling pranks on unsuspecting colleagues and making bets on the success of other doctors. Doctors breaking rules to following a stricter code of conduct. Doctors especially considerate of the young, the comatose and the mad.

But most of all a doctor in the coma ward of Princeton-Plainsbro, who is an always will be very much alive.

In spirit.


End file.
